My father has always loved hanging out with his grandkids. When they were little, he would offer to come by and watch them at the drop of a hat – anytime I had an appointment or if I needed to run errands. It was a real blessing.
One afternoon, arriving home following a doctor’s appointment, I found my father and my then 4-year-old son happily playing in the family room. Walking into the kitchen, smiling as I listened to their laughter, I put down the few groceries I had picked up on my way home and considered what to make for lunch. Looking around, I noted the pantry was open and wandered over to find a box of cookies on the floor I knew full well wasn’t there when I left.
“Um, Dad?” I called into the family room, “Why is this empty box of cookies on the floor?”
“Well, my grandson was hungry,” he replied proudly.
“What? Dad, did you let my son eat an entire box of Peek Freans?”
“It wasn’t a full box – and he was hungry! What else was I going to give him?”
“Seriously? Anything else EVER!”
I had left several snacks prepared – cut apples and cheese and vegetables. They were untouched in the fridge. I couldn’t understand what my father had let happen. I stood in the kitchen rattled.
Let me explain. See, when I was little, I have distinct memories of every dinner plate being filled with several vegetables. These were not perfectly crisped vegetables like on commercials, nor were they basted in butter or dripping with cheese to make them appetizing – more often than not they were overcooked monstrosities but the best my father could put together after his dayshift – or before he left on a night shift. He was insistent though, there was never any excuse to leave vegetables behind. They were a part of almost every meal, even at breakfast this man would sneak some kind of vegetable in. He was a strict believer in the power of vegetables. What’s more, I don’t think I had ever seen my father purchase, never mind eat a cookie a day in his life. If we bought a box of cookies in my father’s house, it was meant to last a month.
In that moment in my kitchen, I realized that although he was cleverly disguised in my father’s face, the person who had shown up that day – my children’s grandfather was – an entirely different man than the mushy-vegetable peddling dude who raised me.
This was first time I realized that my children’s Papa, as they know him, was no father of mine.
That day this Papa person assured me that his grandchildren would “find ways” to get their nutrients. As I stood holding an empty cookie box , with my brow furrowed in confusion, he deftly brushed off my concern and was confident that one box of cookies wouldn’t kill his grandson. Papa believed children had to have some fun and cookies were “fun“.
Who is this old man?
After this initial appearance, like the invasion of the body snatchers, this strange Papa person became a regular fixture.
It wasn’t just his stance on vegetables that made him unrecognizable. He would take my children for walks and play in the park, and despite my father’s insistence that we pee before we left the house or hold it – my children delightedly reported that Papa had let them pee in the bushes!
My children’s Papa also condemned spanking. He would never employ such a barbaric tactic and was devout in his belief that his grandchildren didn’t need spanking. These were good kids.
Now, to be clear, I do not spank my kids, but this is despite the way my father raised me. While my father’s views of punishment were deeply contradictory to my own, my children’s Papa seemed wholly aligned with conscious parenting. Papa understood natural consequences in a way my father certainly did not. Papa smiled at their defiant “no’s”, he laughed off spilled juice as it rolled over the counter and on to the floor and would remind me “she’s just a baby” when I was even mildly exasperated by my toddler’s antics.
Over the years, I have tried to limit my side-eye when the actions of Papa completely contradict what I am sure my father would do. My children’s Papa never fails to surprise me. While initially perplexed, I have come to accept that I when leaving my children with Papa, I essentially leave them with a man who is a stranger to me.
No longer just a father, this man has unapologetically transcended to the role of Papa.
I can only shake my head and hope that at some point, I too will earn such an honour.
